Incendiary Measures
by ineffablediann
Summary: This is my version of A Study in Pink. AU. Massive re-write to fix and hone the story. I would like to thank my wonderful Beta, Stephrc79. While some of it is the same as my initial story, it is also true that it has changed in dynamics and tone. Really excited to get this back out there. Thank you to all who have been reading along since I began writing last fall.
1. Chapter 1

What the hell has he been doing out there anyway?

Didn't he learn last time?

No time to think now. Barely time to breathe.

He knows it's a long shot, but he has to get to the ones that were closest, cover be damned. He can help them and he isn't going to bloody well sit there and listen to that man scream in agony in this god-forsaken area.

That is the last thing John needs.

One more he can't save.

He is a fucking surgeon, he shouldn't even be on this run. But after the last trauma team had cocked it all up, to no real fault of their own. It's all the damned replacements. No, he needs to be here. He has even gotten to them, has helped extricate the soldier, and staunch the lads' injuries enough to get them mobile with himself still breathing; even if it is barely just to the morphine, shock, and blood loss. Not to mention what he is going to try to knit back together once they all get back safely.

Two days until leave.

Feels like an eternity.

Skyping his sister, John knows he'll have to get a hotel. He refuses to babysit her for the two months he is going to be back home in London.

London.

It would be wonderful. Cool weather, rain, city air, bookshops, his favorite cafe. He couldn't wait to be back, at least for a short visit. Just to recharge. Then, he can come back, patch more people back together, and start their road to rehabilitation. The next day, John receives his missive with his tickets. That night all hell broke loose. They have four still in critical, two gone to this world.

Yes, he needs the break before he sets fire to something. They were too young, nineteen and twenty, respectively. God, was he ever that young? He feels worlds older than the thirty-four (almost thirty-five) that he is. John closes his eyes, trying to picture it. Quiet normal hum of city life; just enough to push the edges back. Bring him back from the brink of the anger he feels. Only one day - twenty four hours - and he will be on his way there.

The first thing John does after the flight is get a cab to just take him around a bit. He has arrived at a busy time of day and just wants to take a circuitous route to his lodgings. The cabbie is more than happy to oblige, only making minimal small talk. Finally, he arrives and tips the cabbie generously for his time. Grabbing his baggage, he goes to the small desk and checks in. Asking to have his things brought up to his room, he takes the copy of his room key before heading right back out the door into the bustle.

Twenty nine hours after he receives his packet, John in home.

He is glad he took the recommendation. The room is quietly appointed, wood paneling with clear coat varnish on one of the walls and attached ensuite to possibly warm up the more minimalist design of the rest of the room. It is pleasant, yet spartan. All about utility.

Yes, very comfortable.

John stows his two duffels into the wardrobe, he moves into the ensuite, and flicks the taps to start a hot bath to soak in. Bless, he needs to wash the travel off. The sand and grit. He is so very thankful he can almost kiss the proprietor of the hotel. As the water runs, steaming the room, John calls downstairs to order room service to have it brought up in an hour. Then, as an afterthought, asks for two bottles of Stella to be brought up straight away, feeling indulgent.

A short while later, as he shut off the taps, the knock he has been waiting for summons him to the door. Opening it, he motions for the two bottles and the opener to be left on the small side table immediately beside to the right of the door. The young woman smiles and places them swiftly before leaving, closing the door behind her.

Oh, thank God, this is going to be heaven...

Hot bath and later dinner brought up John decides as he slides into the bath with the first bottle, the wondrous play of the heat against his skin and the icy chill of the beer causes him to smile. Simple pleasures, thankful heart, restful heat. Going through his mental itinerary is a fairly simple feat as well. Mike and he would be meeting in a few days to catch up, to see Bart's as it is now with the newest modifications, and possibly meet Mike's new girlfriend. Maybe he can ask if his girlfriend has a single friend they'd like to bring along for him. He is going to be in London for a bit, no reason to be alone the whole time.

Then there is Harry, she has claimed to him over the last several months that she's maintained sobriety finally. John would really love to see that, he just doesn't know if he should really get his hopes up. How many times has she said that before? How many leaves wasted when Clara is 'working' so he can play nursemaid. He swore, at times, Clara used his leave to get a little break herself. John tries not to begrudge her, but she has no earthly idea how much he really does not need to take care of another person for most of his leave.

John knows these high stress situations will get the best of him if he doesn't take the time to care for himself first. He is always on for his patients, the others on base as well, if they stopped by at clinic. They know he will listen. This time around, after everything, all he wants is a truly small amount of rest, time with his mates and hopefully sober sister and her wife, and just maybe someone warm in his bed from time to time if he were lucky.

He scrubs, still contemplative, until he is mostly pink, then rinses in the shower before dressing for the evening. John decides to go downstairs to the pub to quietly read and people watch. A nice way to re-acclimate to the bustle of the City. Dinner can be had downstairs instead of closeting himself up in his room. It is a good plan of action and he is ready to see another face besides his own.

Might as well enjoy myself.

In just a few short hours, unbeknownst to John, everything would change.

And he would have someone new to be thankful for.

Sherlock unzips the black bag carefully, not wanting to ruin the specimen before him. Laying it bare, a thin ghost of a smile wisps across his face accompanying the miniscule shot of adrenaline that has begun coursing through his system. Peering at the cold cadaver, he turns thoughtful before finally voicing a concern to the woman beside him.

"How fresh?" He must know.

It is imperative to the soliloquy about to play out in this theatre of death.

"Just in," the woman replies, "Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice."

The man straightens imperceptibly, "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop."

Body bag removed now, only flesh on the steel, how marvelous. The man circles the table, reading only what someone as keen as he can; there is no one like him in the world. He is meant for this. Stopping, he coolly regards the flesh in front of him when, what seems like out of nowhere, the first strike lands heartily.

A good resounding flogging ensues. The texture of the flesh, the lividity, still usable. This would be most helpful to his endeavor. The woman, now in the observation area, flinches at each strike. She is full of admiration for this gentleman. Her eyes shine with morbid fascination and glee.

Watching this man work; the things it does to her.

She waits until there is a pause, then sliding back into the theatre a few moments later, she attempts to get his attention.

"Bad day, is it?" she asks breathlessly of the man.

He ignores her inane question, starting in on his notepad.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes, a man's alibi depends on it," he states. "Text me with the results."

He throws out as an aside not quite knowing if she would have thought to do so of her own volition.

Molly is saying something, but he is already calculating out mentally how he believes the bruises would bloom on the corpse he has just thoroughly thrashed.

Ugh, she will not quit. He would have to answer her. It is only polite.

"Sorry, was deep in thought. You were saying?" the man queries of his peer.

Good.  
Civil.  
Succinct.

She gazes at him intently, "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?" She responds; thrilled that she has finally asked him.

"Black, two sugars," he responds. "Please. I'll be upstairs." He leaves her to watch him walk away yet again.

"Okay…" she whispers as she follows.

Finalizing his notes for the night, he quietly slips into the depths of His City.

Sherlock knows where a good place to start looking for his suspected murderer might be. A slightly posh establishment, mostly men, mid-thirties to forties. He would not be so much out of place if he was meeting his brother there for dinner. Mycroft can understand the need for multi-tasking when one is trying to reach sensitive information. Hailing a taxi, Sherlock intends to close this case tonight. He just needs a good cover.

And he finds it sitting at the bar of the Grazing Goat.

Thirty four, blonde, holds himself comfortably, but something about it speaks either military or Met; Sherlock is leaning military as he has a tan.

Mycroft and he conduct their discussion quickly as his brother chooses to have coffee with a pear tart. His diet seems to be going well, so Sherlock doesn't goad him about the luxury. They discuss Sherlock marking his six months of sobriety; and of the D.I. he has met, has begun working with. Toward the end of the meeting, as Mycroft excuses himself, he remarks on the blonde man that Sherlock has been keeping tabs on during their time together. If Sherlock found he and the stranger have similar interests, he would have a file ready for him in the morning available for drop off.

Sherlock, as always, tells his older brother that it wouldn't be necessary, knowing Mycroft has intentions of doing it anyway. He sits there for a few more moments, keenly focusing now on the gentleman at the bar. It only takes a few seconds for him to turn and look in Sherlock's direction. With a relaxed smile and tilt of his head he greets the gaze by lifting his pint in salute and taking a drink before nodding to the seat beside himself.

Sherlock made his way to the bar, keeping eye contact, but in a shy curious manner, so as to not frighten off his cover. If the overheard conversations were any indication, the surgeon might be as clever as Sherlock hopes he'll be.

"Hello. Date didn't go so well?" The man quips pleasantly.

"No, but not particularly bad either. More indifference, truth be told."

"That one of the reasons why you kept your eye on me the whole time you've been here?"

Yes, clever. Good.

"One of them." Sherlock decides to be honest, to see where it might lead.

"Oh?" the sandy blonde returns, "what were the other ones?"

"I don't know if I want to ruin the lovely time we are having and tell you, actually."

"Yes you do. I can see it all over your face. Pretty how your eyes change when you're holding a secret."

"And am I holding a secret, doctor?"

"Well, there." The man answers, straight to the point. "That's one...those eyes of yours, they pick up on things. You've been paying attention to my hands."

"Among other attributes." Sherlock colours slightly, purposely.

"Well I can promise you, my hands are quite dexterous. Would you like another glass?"

"Please…"

"John." the stranger offers, extending his hand. "And you are?"

Finally, a name!

"Sherlock."

"Interesting name, that." John leans to just parallel with Sherlock's ear whispering his intentions, "Bet it would sound beautiful coming across my to find out?"

"I might be persuaded, but first I have my own proposition." Sherlock notices the killer leaving with a new quarry. "It's most likely going to be dangerous, but a military man such as you wouldn't be bothered with that, would you?"

"No, not bothered at all. Dangerous can be fun." John asks, his eyes bright. "What type of danger are we currently discussing?"

"Not that type as yet, something more of the mortal sort. There is a man who just left that might very well be dangerous to others."

"You're having me on now. If you're just here for a flirt, it's all fine and good, you just have to say so."

"Honestly John, I am a horrid story-teller. There is no fathomable way I could make up stories as fanciful as the truth I live. Would you like to help me, then maybe some dinner?"

"Well, I can't have a civilian accidentally killing himself all because he's a twig going up against Goliath can I?" John smirks gleefully.

"Thank you, John. Let's go before she is harmed..."

"She?"

"Yes..." Sherlock stands and walks to the door, opening it for John. He finds himself hoping that he has calculated this correctly. "That is his method. Picking up younger ladies who he then drugs, drags off to the nearest alley and-"

"Yeah, I get the picture. Let's go get the bastard, shall we?"

Oh, this will be an interesting night indeed.

"Yes, we need to get them separated as quickly as possible."

"Are we now?" John answers keeping up with Sherlock's brisk pace. "With no backup of any sort? No police?"

"John, I'm not calling 999, they won't get here in time. You may feel free to do so though. If you do tell them you need Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Alright, on it." John dials, "I need DI Lestrade to New Quebec Street. Grazing Goat. Possible rape in progress."

John places the mobile back in his jacket, staying on the line, allowing the operator to locate them as well as keep tabs on the situation. The two become very aware of the man turning the corner, a woman indeed with him..They pick up the pace and can hear an altercation as they turn into the darkened space, Sherlock commanding the area.

"Stop! " Sherlock booms into the depths of the alleyway. "The police will be here any moment. Let the woman go."

"Bugger off, twat!"

"Oh, such manners. Unhand her."

"Fuck off, mate!" Then the man's voice, registering the full extent of Sherlock's words, turns to ice. "The police?"

John feels the hairs begin to stand and calm settle all at once, as he is used to this type of standoff.

The muzzle flares. The concealed weapon the man has waiting sends a bullet hurtling towards them both. John sprints to Sherlock, moving to tackle him out of harms way. Sherlock, using the momentum, rolls off John, voraciously hurling himself at the attacker pinning him to the ground. Zip-tying his attackers hands - then for good measure - his ankles as well Sherlock takes stock of the situation.

"Doctor, see to the woman please." He calls over his shoulder. "I believe she has passed out."

"Can't…" Came the weak reply from behind him. "Help will be here soon."

"John?" Sherlock runs the few feet to the man and sees that he is bleeding profusely. John has been shot in the upper chest, wounded because of him. Maybe even saved Sherlock's life in his heroic idiocy, but gauging at the amount of blood now seeping over John, he might have just given his own. "John! Stay awake!"

"Yea, I'm here. Sorta." Blessed hell, this is a pain he did not want. Ever.

"Tell me what to do." This is turning grave. John is bleeding more than he should be from this caliber, nicked something vital then. Sherlock stays kneeling, pressing his hands to John's face. "You must focus, what can I do for you?"

"Stay with me. Please. Lie if you have to. Say... say you're my fiance. It'll get you the access you wouldn't get as just a friend." John was rasping. "Least I know your name... gorgeous angel... that you're special."

"I am hardly special, John."Taking the other man's hand steadily in his own, Sherlock's gaze becomes analytical, then immediately softens. "You silly stupid hero, do not die. You're wearing your ID's right?"

John gasps, his breath shortening. "Yea…"

"Alright," Sherlock quickly removes the tags and hangs them around his own neck before bending and whispering to John calmly. " I have them, they're safe. I'll tell them what they need."

Looking just past them he can see the medical services team heading to them. Just behind, he sees the silhouette of Lestrade.

"They're here. Hold on John, please." Sherlock yells at the emergency personnel, allowing some of the real fear he feels to creep into his voice, making it sound earnest. "Lestrade! My fiance! He-he's dying, help please! Please!"

"What's this?" Lestrade calls back in answer. "Fiance?"

"Yes! The man you want is there, trussed. Please…I have to stay with John. Please fix it for him… he wants- he needs me."

"Sher-Sherlock…"

"I'm here John. Lestrade! Call Mycroft." Sherlock pointedly looks away, pained, before turning all his attention quickly so the Detective Inspector would feel the brunt of Sherlock's demanding wrath. "We're going to need him."

As they load John into the ambulance, Sherlock jumps in along side, explaining who he is in rapid fire.  
The medic looks to the DI for confirmation. The single nod Lestrade gives him is enough to keep Sherlock there as the doors close. Taking John's hand back, he remains as unobtrusive as possible for possibly the first time in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

"It's an... it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating ..." The DI on the telly is trying to cover his arse, it looks like to John; coming to a bit more he begins paying attention again when the reporter speaks up.

"Says 'wrong' again, sir."

Bah, what the hell is he worried about? Not some killer out on the loose, that his madcap "fiance" would be running around half of London trying to suss out, just suicides.

"One more question!" the reporter chimes in. "Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

"Look," the DI begins, getting visibly fussed. "I... I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The the poison is clearly self-administered."

"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" the reporter asks.

"Well, don't commit suicide."

John peers back up at the screen as a small laugh issues from him. Not the DI's call really, but damn if he doesn't like his dark humor.

"Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

"He was there with us two nights ago you know," the tall, dark haired posh git at the doorway half-smiles breaking John's concentration on the telly. "Been on me ever since to let you speak to him. To get to know if you're good enough for his resident consulting detective."

It is John's third day of recovery after the incident in the alleyway. It left him with a nine hour surgery to repair a small tear in his left aorta, as well as repair his sternocostal and infraspinatus musculature. John was just thankful nothing fragmented, so much could have gone wrong. John is just glad that in the long run, after he finished with the PT, that his prognosis is very favourable. He will regain full mobility in his hand and as yet there were no signs of lasting nerve damage.

The two of them had been discussing their ruse before Sherlock was called away for a few hours the night previous. John's glad to be Sherlock's flatmate, but the reason as to why he's still going along with the 'engagement' debacle is just as elusive.

Maybe he enjoys, just for a time, thinking that he could be wanted by someone as brilliant and untamed as Sherlock.

"Ta, so that's my 'fiance's' profession, is it then? Detective? Consulting Detective?" John teases the younger man, motioning for him to come sit and stop hovering. "Well, come tell me all about it then, henny."

Sherlock gives John an odd expression as he complies with the request. Henny?

"Well, simply put, I observe what others consider mundane. I categorise all the minutia that everyone else filters out as unimportant - which it all is important - and then logically deduce the answer to whatever puzzle it is that I am currently working on."

"Amazing!" John smiles giddily, letting the sarcasm infuse his words. "So, light of my life, deduce your lover. Tell him, will you, what you've worked out. If correct, I'll give you a kiss I'm sure I owe you."

"John, do not be daft." Sherlock catches on to John's game, but he has no intention of playing. "Of course I know everything about you, how else would I be here..."

"Everything? Now really?" Oh this is grand, John thinks. "Sizing me up, were you?"

"Please. I know your religion through your discs, not your lack of clothing," Sherlock chides. Why on earth is John purposefully trying to tease him...

Oh. Flirtation.

One can definitely play that game.

"You, sir, are a doctor. Surgeon to be specific. You've been in Afghanistan, as you are posted with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, patching people up to send home, which you did for at least two tours. I'd say three, but you have a degree, not just basic medical training, which means you finished your courses before entering service. You are currently here on leave, just got here the morning you were shot as a matter of fact."

"Alright. That is... brilliant actually, but can you tell me something you can't just look up through Googling me?"

"You have yet to come out as a bisexual to your married lesbian sister who is currently six-months sober."

"How..." John is amazed at this, Sherlock can see it in his whole demeanor. "Tell me, I have to know how."

He is just interesting enough for Sherlock to earnestly get to know. Maybe, in turn, John will really wish to know him, as well. It seems as if John is appraising the situation with a slight sadness. For some reason it begins to make Sherlock uncomfortable, so settling down in the chair next to John's bed, he gives his best show.

"Observation. Harriet is your fraternal twin sister, but she chose not to finish her course work, instead helped her girlfriend finish hers. Then she began drinking because of all the lonely nights, as her beloved was working any practical shift she could get her hands on. They married five years ago, judging from the state of her ring. She had a brand new band hugging the top of the previous, six months aged, as an obvious statement of re-commitment and solidarity with her lovely spouse."

"As to the fact you had not yet come out to your sister, that is very simple. She knows that you have been quiet about most of your relationships since university because you value your privacy in these matters. It also did not help that she used to tease you 'mercilessly' in an effort to just admit that you were not the straight arrow you purported to be. Your sister said she felt terribly about it, stating at the time she couldn't stand you being closeted and hypocritical at the same time. They are over the moon to find you coming home to give them the good news of our engagement; both had been worried over the fact that you had no one to 'come home to' as it were, so she is the firstborn, you the secondary. Older siblings, even by minutes, still manage to try to wield 'sororital' mastery, or sisterly concern, over their younger counterparts."

"That is... wait... announcing our engagement?" John looks slightly dazed. His pulse has begun to visibly ascend on the machines that are distinctly unbecoming. "So, you didn't tell her otherwise?"

"Please, John, you need to remain calm." Placing a hand over John's, he pats it warmly, as a worried lover would. Conspiratorial whimsy crosses Sherlock's face as he leans forward to continue, "I do not want your recovery hindered. You told me to stay with you... to 'lie if you have to', remember? Besides, I'm quite the catch, at least they think so. Wait until you meet my brother. Oh, it is going to be priceless. Tell me, is there anything in your record I should be made aware of that he might blackmail us with?"

"My rec- Sherlock!" John whispers urgently, "I think you are absolutely gorgeous, seem to have a brilliant mind too, but we aren't, you know. We haven't even had a proper date yet, let alone a snog. What if you think I'm terrible in bed? Which is highly unlikely, but still. And we aren't in..."

"In what, Captain Watson?" An older gentleman John does not recognise materializes in the doorway. "In a real relationship? Real engagement? Oh, please tell me, did Sherlock swoon when you asked him five minutes after meeting him, or was it the blood loss that had him so excited?"

"Wait, you're the fellow from dinner the other night," he turns to Sherlock. "This is your brother?"

"Correct, John," the gentleman responds. "I am Sherlock's elder sibling. Honestly, this has all been rather amusing, but I think that it is time to come clean to everyone. Wouldn't you agree, doctor?"

John is not happy with the condescending tone the elder brother seems to be taking. "Come clean about what, exactly? About how much I care for your brother, sir? How happy he makes me, sir? How excited I am to enter a civil partnership with him? Sir?" With each 'sir', John can see Sherlock smirk just a little bit more.

John looks on, mildly chuffed to see Sherlock's brother ruffled by this.

"Please, call me Mycroft," He replies looking disdainful. "What exactly, are your intentions with my brother? He is not the easiest of men-"

"He's right here." John heatedly cuts Mycroft off mid-sentence. "You know...in the room. Sherlock is not an inanimate object to be discussed."

God, John cannot believe the gall of the man. He's barely known Sherlock more than two days and even he knows better than that.

"The man holding my hand beside my bed," John continues, "Is trying to calm me because I'm a tad exacerbated at the moment. That would be a terrible setback to my health, seeing as how I am recuperating from the surgery of an almost fatal gunshot wound I took in place of the man you are currently condescending. Who just happens to be your brother. He is currently trying to calm me simply with his presence. He may not be the easiest, but he is mine."

"So very loyal, so very quick."

"No, I'm really not. Call it fate intervening, a holy host has come and delivered upon me your brother's compassion. It's a bloody miracle. God, you are daft!"

"Very well, if neither my brother nor you choose to see reason at this time, these documents need to be filed. As always, they may be rescinded within the next ninety days, if the two of you so choose. I'll be on the lookout for the Happy Announcement by the end of the week, gentlemen."

With that, Sherlock's brother leaves the manila envelope at the foot of John's bed and turns out the door to the hall, leaving the two alone one again.

"Is he always so self important?" John rankles, his blue eyes taking on a fiery edge. "He's the bane of your existence, isn't he?"

John looks up to see an array of emotions cross Sherlock's face; everything from shock to envy to pride. John realizes almost immediately that he's probably the only other person Sherlock has ever seen try so thoroughly to dispatch his brother's calm facade, especially in Sherlock's defense. Well, tried to do, he amends, though John most definitely has surprised Sherlock, that is for sure.

"John, I'm sorry for Mycroft's behavior. The local bakery must have been out of his favorite cake for him to be in such a mood." Sherlock finds himself idly stroking John's fingers, and goes to move away, only to have John hold on instead. "Did you mean it... You don't have to continue this if you do not wish-"

"Sherlock, you're an enigma," John cuts off. He closes his eyes and rests back against the pillow, his body beginning to radiate the deep dull throb from within his own chest. He hurt down to his molecules and has become weary from getting his ire up. "I meant what I said about your compassion. Whether you are difficult to get along with or not, that is my choice to find out. I will not be bullied by anyone about this, and neither will you."

"John, I-" Sherlock looks at John with such uncertainty on his face, his voice falters. "I've never had anyone want to call me theirs, let alone do so. I thought this might be advantageous to us both, but now-"

"Shh, Sherlock. The situation is a bit not good, but you do care. That is evident." John turns his softened, kind eyes to the man holding his hand. "I think, possibly, that I liked you too you know."

No matter how many barbs Sherlock collects around himself, it doesn't quite seem to ring true to John. Built-in mechanisms for preservation most likely. Sherlock will never bore him, that is for certain. He could listen all night to get to know him. That first night, it was instinct to shelter the innocent. But the more he gets to know Sherlock, the more he thinks he would have done it anyway.

"In the bar, that wasn't just a tease. You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever lay sight on, and your mouth could probably well ruin me...but above all that is that you interest me. You're intuitive and just a bit mad it seems...especially to keep up that we are engaged just to stay by my side. There's a story behind that I'd like to know."

"Would you really?" Sherlock seems intrigued. "I've never quite had that honest of a reaction from anybody."

"Well then they are all daft. I've only known you a few days," John winces as he took a breath while he tries to relax. "That first night though, I'll never forget it. Amazing. Since I've been recovering and incoherent I bet you figured out everything about me. I want to be able to say the same. There has to be a reason, Sherlock. Tell me of yourself a bit, yea?"  
~~~~~~~~~

Fuck...Sherlock! Don't die on me...  
We have this, I have you.

He tries desperately to work on the young man, staunch the blood flow.  
It is too heavy. Too fast.  
All he can do is comfort these last few seconds...keep trying to work on him...not lose him...

"Nooooo!" John wakes, screaming. Drenched in a cold sweat, swearing, he rips the covers away from himself.

Do not hyperventilate.  
Normal. Calm the bloody hell down.

"Who cares if it's 0400? That's normal for me..."

"I do, John. Are you in pain?" Sherlock speaks up, apparently awake, "I could call a nurse?"

"No, no...I'm fine. Just a nightmare. Going back to sleep. You should try to get some too, Sherlock. We're supposed to head to your flat later, so as the doctor suggested, you'll want to be well rested."

"To fetch and carry, John. Nothing strenuous remember?"

"Ocht, that's right, my dove. It'd be too strenuous on you the first night anyway... We'll make it all work somehow."

"I would not doubt my ability,I am rather changeable when the mood strikes."

"Ah! So you can make me a fine cuppa and bring some form of sustenance as well?"

"We shall see what I am able to cook up for the entertainment of your mouth," John can hear the smile in Sherlock's words. "If nothing else, but to stop it from admitting your unwavering devotion to Moi." Sherlock chuckles minutely before curling back into the hospital-supplied cot.

John looks over at Sherlock, and studies the tall framed man scrunched on what has to be uncomfortable roll-away. He has spent the last two nights of John's stay in a chair beside his bed, but John has made Sherlock promise to sleep.

"Sherlock, come up here. You are miserably too tall for that thing, you great idiot." He returns the jovial volley before offering seriously, "Really, henny, come up here. It's not scandalous, and you wouldn't care even if it were. Come get comfortable, you big spoon, bet we'll fit perfectly. Just grab your blankets because I'm not sharing!"

He owes Sherlock so much, and finds himself beginning to bend to accommodate the man he barely knows. John knows there is something there, obviously. If there isn't, if Sherlock hasn't noticed it either, what is the point to Sherlock staying by John's side? It has to be for more than show. This is days now, not just one night or one visit. John can at least make the man comfortable.

"My own little pocket doctor then? Trying to use your compactness to lure me? Just know it's only the slightly better mattress I'm interested in." Sherlock carefully places himself to cradle John's form, wickedly grinning into John's hairline as he settles in, "The bed at home will be so much better, I promise. Rest now, John."

Finally, almost 13 days after John set foot back in London, he is about to finally get out of the damned hospital. As John breathes free air, he's able to clear his head from the sterile acridic cloud it has been wrapped in.

"No, it's a loss. I'm not sure I can actually."

"Try. We'll be off to Baker Street right after the shift change this morning." He chuckles low, the reverberation against John felt pleasant. "You need your rest John."

A few hours later, John is pleasantly surprised to find, as the taxi slows to a stop in front of the unassuming building, how close they are to Regent's and the they alight, John realizes he genuinely looks forward to the rest of his leave being spent primarily with Sherlock.

Sherlock lives on the first floor of the old victorian, and there is a smaller set of rooms on the second that has been offered for his use. John does not know if they will ever be used much, but the thought is nice that Sherlock has made room for John in his life. That he has tried to clear a space by moving his laboratory from the kitchen to the basement flat, then takes it a step further moving his study to primarily what is to be their parlor, so that John can have his own private area.

He has tilted his world for an almost stranger on a whim, accepting John fully into his life as a friend, and is going to enter into an agreement that is mutually beneficial, but has long-reaching implications for them both. John can't deny that Sherlock is brilliant, handsome, and to anyone would be a marvelous catch, if not for the warning label his mouth should come with. Even with that, it isn't nearly as intolerable as it might seem to others. It's actually a bit more fun this way.

"Welcome home, John," Sherlock states quietly as he opens the main door to the foyer. "Mrs. Hudson will probably be up to say her 'hellos' and bring tea."

With that Sherlock ascends the stairs with John just behind. When he opens the door to their parlor, John is struck giddy. The place is a massive wreck of papers in what might be some sort of order that John can't see; books still stacked on the floor waiting to be re-shelved, the post being held hostage by a short hunting knife.

"Sherlock, there's a skull, on your mantle."

"On our mantle, yes. He's a friend. Well, when I say friend..."

"As long as he's not stolen and not homemade by you eating away someone's flesh to watch the process, I don't really care. It's just whimsical. Unexpected." John's voice has warmed as he continues to speak, ending in a smile they share between them.

He continues to catalog haberdash furniture, rugs, and a proper desk. All very bohemian, but it seems to fit. The kitchen is at least completely set to rights, everything in its place, all the counter free of nonsense. John assumes this is due to the recent relocation of Sherlock's lab.

"This way?" Sherlock tilts his head toward the short hall. "The first floor bath and my, well..." He shows John around to get to know the place, but hesitates as soon as they are standing beside the bed. John approves of the neatness of the space; only what is necessary furniture-wise, but by no means Spartan. "Our room, if you wish."

"Sherlock, this is your space," John takes Sherlock's hand, "If you want this to remain solely yours and you want the second floor to be mine, it's alright. You've done so much to accomodate me already."

"No, it's fine John," Sherlock states seriously. "I'd be fine bedsharing, I wouldn't have offered otherwise."

"As long as we are always on the same page, alright?"

"John," Sherlock gives him a withering stare, "I'm not some regency heroine, all blushes and sighs-"

"Oh, now love." John interrupts, closing the space between them down to a breath's length away. Sherlock's color begins to rise at the surprise maneuver, betraying him. "See how you blush for me now..." John looks up at Sherlock with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Not now John." Sherlock removes his hand from John's and steps a few paces away, seemingly disinterested. "Let me familiarise you with my lab and your upstairs rooms."

"I suppose," John, ignoring Sherlock's statement, casts himself onto the bed patting beside himself. "I can't even get a lie down with my fiance for a mo' in our room?"

"John..." Sherlock huffs.

"Oh, there's the long suffering tone I just love to hear." John's voice drops a half-register. "Please, Sherlock, come here a moment. I'll not do anything you do not want. We just... we need to see how this feels, outside of an uncomfortable hospital setting is all."

"We have much to discuss still."

"Yes, love, we do," John continues unphased. "And we can do that right here while we acclimate. No better way, just like a sleepover when you would roll over and talk to your friend until you fell asleep."

"Never had one." Sherlock states simply as he goes around and finally lays himself out beside John.

"A sleepover?" John asks.

Sherlock looks at John and shakes his head before answering, "...or a friend."

"Well, you have a friend now. As far as the sleepover, we will be fixing that as of tonight." John gets excited at the prospect of sharing this with Sherlock. "We'll order in, watch Monster Squad in our pyjamas, and turn in early to tell blood curdling stories in the dark until we pass out."

"If you wish," Sherlock replies, looking mildly dubious. "I see no point, but it's your first night here so I'll play along to indulge your whims."

"Ta, there's a good man," John laughs. "Now, show me the rest of our home."

"Later, you need a moment. Seems all this has taken a bit out of you." Sherlock maneuvers over to John gently move him to settle between his legs, John's back up against his front. He lightly rubs John's arms as he continues to speak. "John, is this alright? I don't want to hurt you."

"It's fine...might take a kip actually if you're up for it?"

"Whatever you need." Sherlock murmurs.

John makes good on his word to Sherlock about having an honest to goodness boys-night-in with childish sleepover written all over it. Mrs. Hudson was going out to market so he gave her a list of a few things for them to be picked up. An hour and a half later finds Sherlock helping him settle the purchases into their proper places to chill or be ready to grab for when they get completely settled in front of the telly.

Sherlock orders in Chinese, helping lend to John's cause, as dinner is in those square take-away boxes that fold so neatly. He finishes setting the containers on the tray with two of the ales and their utensils, waits for Sherlock to grab it, then heads into the parlor.

"Perfect."

"What is John?" Sherlock looks at him quizzically. "That you trapped me into watching this?"

"Quit whinging, Sherlock," John laughs. "You'll enjoy this. You'll see. Getting to complain loudly, spend time with someone you want to, maybe have a snuggle."

"Fine," Sherlock comments, looking completely unenthused.

John continues to smile as Sherlock presses play and accepts the carton handed to him. John thinks of the grousing he will hear from Sherlock while watching the kids horror flick and him stealing Sherlock's food, and exactly how comfortable he is with all of it.

"Yes, it will be." John smiles, then digs into the soft noodles.

"John!" Sherlock immediately complains loudly. "Why are they... that girl... she's clearly not a virgin!"


	3. Chapter 3

Two weeks after finds the pair driving to the Holmes estate to meet the matriarch of the family. John has gone and purchased a new suit under Sherlock's careful eye, but has refused any help with the purchase or with tailoring. John is just fine financially, he can afford a new suit all on his own. Especially now, with the advance warning that 'mummy' would go all out for their ceremony. It winds up being a very nice trip for the two of them. There had not been any contact about the suicide case and John is ready to get out a bit. The country would be a nice change for the day.

The estate is quite a large affair with understated beauty. Everything is precisely where it should be, but in an eloquent, unhurried fashion. As they pull into the drive, Sherlock is practically vibrating with what has to be a mixture of nerves and excitement. He has coached John, reminding him to be free with his touches today, but that mummy would most likely expect them to still be reserved, which is in their favor. They have been getting used to light touches and simple grazes over the past week so the two of them can pull it off today just fine.

John takes Sherlock's hand, holding it gently, still enjoying the newness and slow touching. He's not anticipated anything ever as much as getting to finally kiss the man beside him. It is an odd sensation, to feel as if he had all the time in the world. For now, they are both happy, and that is all that matters. As they alight from the car, John can see that they are being greeted by Mrs. Holmes herself, all strength and beauty.

"She's beautiful Sherlock...you got everything from her didn't you?" John breathes into Sherlock's ear as he takes the other man's hand leaving the vehicle. If he sees the light blush that is quickly tamed, he says nothing of it to Sherlock.

"Sherlock Magnus Holmes! You took until deciding to marry this charming Captain to let me meet the man, oh so very naughty." Mrs. Holmes puts on a very affected face and tuts waiting to be properly introduced to her soon to be son-in-law.

"Mummy, this is Captain John Hamish Watson, RAMC, and the sole person to ever hold my heart." Sherlock winkes toward John as he finishes his little speech. "John, this vivacious totalitarian is Mrs. Jacqueline Violet Holmes, my mother."

"Ever for lovely words, my son." Softly laughing, she chides her younger boy, "Come kiss your mother this instant to make up for your clever mouth! And you, John, thank you for not being afraid to take on two war-zones at once." Mrs. Holmes extends her hands to them both. "Now, let's go have a light lunch and discuss your upcoming wedding!"

Once seated in the family area, Mrs. Holmes turns her crystalline blue eyes toward the both of them. She has been studying them since she first laid eyes on John, something seeming not quite right. Sherlock is blushing even though the touches that John and he shares are comfortable. Can it be? Well, it really is none of her concern other that it endeares John just a little more to her heart. He seems a very calming presence, steady. She wonders how Sherlock would fare once John goes back to Bastion.

"So, my dearest children, I understand we have very little time, yes? Sherlock has graciously given me the chance to make the affair a beautiful day for the both of you, free of worry. Is this alright with you John? No family on your side?"

"Just my twin sister, her wife, and myself. Not so bad, especially at Christmastime, makes it cozy."

"You are so very a lucky young man, Sherlock. You had better kiss him every night before you both fall asleep, thanking him for loving the whirlwind you are."

"Good advice, Mrs. Holmes. Sherlock, maybe you should listen to your mother more often..."

"John..." the long suffering added into his statement could not have been more dramatic. "Please."

"Oh! I was right!" Mrs. Holmes perks up gleeful. "Oh, John he should kiss you doubly so for waiting!"

John, who is in the middle of a sip of tea is thankful to have something to concentrate on for a second. Had Mrs. Holmes just called them out on the lack of...no...not possible...She would never, could never mean...

"Yes, mummy, I have asked to wait."

Oh, God, this is happening.

"Um, Sherlock, I don't think. Well that is..." John tries to keep his composure around Sherlock's mother, but it is deteriorating rapidly. "Yes, Mrs. Holmes. That is correct."

Oh how he hates lying, but there is no other way, really they have yet to even kiss so, maybe nothing physical will yet happen in their relationship. John knows Sherlock has been escalating things at his own pace and John has been paying attention, not wanting to push the subject. John, himself has walked a very thin line recently. Out of the shower in only a towel, door open while finishing his morning grooming routine. If Sherlock just so happens to linger a bit longer in bed, John says nothing of it.

Sherlock captures his hand under the table, giving it a light squeeze. It is a sweet gesture they have begun using as a quiet way to thank the other, as Sherlock sometimes cannot voice what he is feeling, it being so overwhelming in his hurricane of a mind. Sometimes, whole new categories have come together, so they stay up until they literally pass out from exhaustion in the very early morning hours conferring about the new emotions Sherlock is feeling or what has changed in their relationship that day. John knows he is falling slowly, he also knows he has no plans to stop.

"Mummy, John's not going to want to wear that, it's still winter, and it is February, not late March. Maybe for the weekend events? I'll even let you get me one in pinstripe if you wish. It will have the family in stitches, which I know you will love."

"Hmm, what were we discussing again?"

"See, I knew John was wondering, you two are made for each other. John, we were discussing your formal wear for the service. Have any comment?"

"Other than at some point I'd like to be in Highland dress, it's what my mum would have wanted. Family plaid and all that. My sister will want a dress...oh I had better discuss... we might not have the time, will we, Mrs. Holmes?"

"I will see to her, John. As I said before, I'll see to everything. Now go, visit Sherlock's old rooms, freshen up, and I'll see you for dinner."

The two meander through Sherlock's childhood home, holding hands, while discussing the day's events so far. It has become so much easier to touch Sherlock knowing that at some point, the desire he has been quietly tending would be allowed to burn with the intensity of what he is feeling. As they round the hall to Sherlock's rooms he becomes hesitant, subdued. John, ever alert, stops them in the hallway looking for a direction to put them in. If Sherlock wants him to lead, he will, but he wants to make sure it is just hesitance that stops the detective's feet.

"Sherlock?" John queries, trying to look into Sherlock's down cast eyes. "You alright, love?"

"I want to thank you. My mother, she's very happy...it has been a long while since I've heard her laugh with me."

"Well then, we'll have to see to it that you actually visit her to make her do so." John retorts with glee in his voice. He is content to see his friend so happy. John has seen there is not much of that in this man's life, and if nothing else, this would be a goal to work towards the last couple of weeks before he goes back to Bastion. "So, are these yours then?"

"Yes. Mine." Sherlock sighs. "Open her up then, and let's go visit my childhood."

It is not at all what John expects.

There is a Crows Nest on the far Northeast corner that is almost a three-quarter circle and is accessible via a rope ladder. The corner it is built into is curved to match and is jammed full of books as well as other trinkets. He is certain, if he climbs up, he would find massive floor pillows to while away on. The walls have wonderfully old maps covering them, some in gilded frames, some held by daggers, even a few smaller ones traditionally hung. There is even an old pull-type that his primary school had used, but the three maps that hung on the clever mechanism look much older.

The walls themselves are an aqua, possibly teal, damask with honeyed wainscotting. More bookshelves, this time with sea glass and clear stained glass door fronts. There is a large white fireplace and massive floor pillows of all different variants of blue and purple scattered close by with two rounded backed chairs in the darkest indigo John has ever seen, presumably for a tutor, nanny, or parent that came to stay in the room for a while. When he finally turns to look at the other half of the room, he is no less amazed.

Set at an angle just off-center in the room is a furniture piece that screams whimsy and opulence all at once. It is clearly a pirate captain's bed, of this John has no doubt. The fabrics in clashing rich colors that looks haphazard, but in reality are the curtains for the bed. The ornate carving and dark stain that holds gouges from what can only be various swords and chains artfully applied to spark a child's fancy. Even the duvet, quilts, and sheets are of warring materials, especially the duvet. He counts no less than fifteen different fabric types and colors masterfully sewn together for the luxurious desultory feel.

"Oh my God, Sherlock." John breathes, "It's amazing!"

"Mummy always was one to give into fantasy when we were children, or so I've been told."

"So Mycroft's rooms?" John wonders, "Are they still his favorite from childhood then?"

"No, he would never allow that. I think some pieces are still in the attic for the eventuality of one of us having children."

"Ah, I see. So you chose to keep your rooms this way. I can see it, Captain Sherlock! Did you have a parrot in that massive cage by your desk that would feed you chemistry answers?"

John stands in awe, he can just feel the happiness that has been absorbed by these walls. He can see a little Sherlock, all of five in short pants and wild hair, completely dominating the space. So what then has happened to change him into an almost-hermit who is sliding toward curmudgeonly?

"When I went away for school, that's when things began to change," Sherlock meanders, practically answering John's thoughts. "Here I had been a bright star, even my tutors were full of praise. The masters where I boarded, though, they were there to instill like-mindedness and mediocrity. There was no place for the child that I was, except for when I would come home on breaks. Even then, it was hard to know I'd be going back, but it made them so proud..."

"Sherlock, I will never try to change you, alright? We're friends aren't we?" John asks as he laces his fingers in Sherlock's. He can't stand hearing the hurt echo in his voice from years long gone. "I might rail a bit from time to time, but I'll never be cruel if I can help it, alright? Now, come show me the rest..."

John learns so much about the man beside him over the next few hours. They wind up in the crows nest giggling like children over some experiment that Sherlock had gotten catastrophically wrong, John's rugby days, the garden snake that has gotten loose in his room by his sister, the climbing tree Sherlock used to clamor up, and all sorts of other misadventures. Here they are, on floor pillows, in a pirate's roost, giggling like five year olds.

"You're amazing, you know." John flops over onto Sherlock, acting on the courage he knows he has in him. "Brilliant, startling, overwhelming..."

The kiss is soft, fairly chaste. John leans his full weight onto one very surprised Sherlock, breathing along the shell of his ear. Bringing Sherlock's hands up, he traps them above his head lightly ghosting his other hand along his ribs. "... but now I must know something..."

"Anything, John."

"Ahh, good poppet." Rewarding Sherlock with another devilishly sweet kiss that borders on scandalous as he places it on the notch of clavicle available to him. "What I wish to know is this...are you ticklish?"

This is why, at half past five in the afternoon, Mycroft walks in on very raucous business with the only telling signs of what is occurring are the peels of laughter and few pieces of discarded clothing.

Sighing, he picks up the discarded shirts and single cashmere jumper, tisking and tutting at them loudly until they settle and come down.

"You two are not eight year olds..." He begins, "Could you please try for some model of decorum while here at Mummy and Father's?"

"Ocht! Is going to be here this evening?"

"No, John, but we will be seeing him soon enough with your day fast approaching. Can I please ask, why in the devil's sake are you doing this to yourselves?"

"Simple, Mycroft," John replies confidently. "We make each other better."


	4. Chapter 4

"Two days, Little! Two! Are you nervous?" Harriet asks John. She is all but vibrating, she is so ecstatic for him. Seeing John's eye roll at the endearment she laughs. "Don't worry, I'll not use it around Himself! Sherlock needs no new ammunition on you."

John has met his sister at the bistro around the corner. It is actually nice to be out with her before all the madness the upcoming extended weekend would hold. In two short days, everyone would converge on the Holmes estate for the four day soiree, culminating in their nuptials Sunday mid-day.

"Ta, that man can be so very smart-tongued, he needs no help, let me tell you..."

"So are you two happy? I mean really? It's all so fast."

"Big, I promise, I am content. Sherlock, well he is Sherlock, and I believe I make him happy. Now, enough of this, tell me again about how fabulous your wife looks in her dress..."

"John!" Mrs. Hudson affectionately calls down the stairs. "Welcome home! Is that lunch for us dearie?"

John knows she is so blessedly doting, and worries that Sherlock was going to become very bored with John gone for the few hours he was, which would be horrible for their flat. She must have come up and was keeping Sherlock company. He notices as he climbs the stairs that the two were talking about the news telecast that is on as background for Mrs. Hudson to clean by.

Mrs. Hudson, once again, pipes in from tidying up in the kitchen, "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Oh goodness gracious these boys were going to be a handful, she could tell.

"Well, we most certainly can ask Lestrade as soon as he comes in to visit."

"Mrs. Hudson," John queries as he unwraps her lunch and settles it for her on their table, starting in on Sherlock's next. "Here's the sandwich and pasta you ordered, I hope you enjoy it."

"Oh, thank you dearie! I believe I will."

"Hmm, Four!" Sherlock calls out as he is minding the street below as the other two busy themselves in the kitchen. "Four! There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time otherwise our dear DI would not be on our doorstep in a marked car."

"Where?" Sherlock questions the D.I. that came trotting up the stairs unceremoniously stopping at the entrance to their living room. "What's new about this one? You wouldn't be here if it was the same."

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?" Lestrade asks coolly. "You know how they never leave notes? Well this one did."

"I will go to the crime scene," He peppers right back to the D.I. "But not in your car. I'll be right behind."

Adrenalin had won over petulance; Sherlock weighs his options already feeling the rush like no other beginning to course through his body. He barely hears Lestrade as the D.I. calls out his thanks over his shoulder as he bounds back down the stairs.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides! And now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He twirls around the room as giddy as a schoolgirl. He picks up his great coat and scarf and kisses Mrs. Hudson on the cheek.

"Mrs. Hudson! Impossible suicides? Four of them?" Sherlock wraps his hands around her shoulders hugging her. "We will be late. Might need some food. Something cold would be nice. Don't wait up!"

Sherlock crosses to his doctor before grabbing, he takes John's hand in his.

"Come along, John!"

Sherlock moves like lightning, thrusting them both out of the flat and onto the pavement at a mind numbing speed; rushing them both into the brisk London air without a second thought. The only thing on his mind is the hunt.

Glorious.  
Right.  
Exhilaration screaming from every part of the body.  
Alive.

Yes, this is what John has missed. This need to be purposeful finally being fulfilled. This is what is right, what he should be doing. Lost in his own thoughts, watching the streetlights flooding London go by, the idea of being useful outside his posting is starting to ghost back into John's life.  
It is evident that Sherlock is texting and busy. John does look at him from time to time, but does not interrupt.

No; a quiet harmony between them instead. John thinks, pleasantly content.

"Again, I can give you five minutes." Lestrade fills them in succinctly, hoping to not over saturate John, as this is his first tag-along. "That is all. Her name is Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for her contact details. Hasn't been long. Some kids found her."

The room they enter is devoid of the normal trapping. In fact, it has been abandoned for a while.

Harsh divorce.  
Left to die slowly like the marriage that was here previously.  
Large holes knocked into the walls with force behind it.  
Yet, here.  
Single rocking horse.  
Far corner.  
Could not stand to take it. Yet could not stand to throw away. A child's. Hmm….  
Sherlock physically wipes the area in his mind of all the knowledge of the location.

Not here for them.

Here for her.

Behind him, John glances at the woman and his face fills with pain and sadness. If he had died senselessly back in that alleyway, as this woman has here tonight, John would never have been able to possibly help Sherlock find her murderer. Losing himself in his thoughts, John quietly stands until Sherlock's voice pulls him back to the present.

"Doctor, John, I could use your medical opinion." The consulting detective looks back, "It would be extremely helpful. Could you determine cause of death?"

The doctor in John takes over; he kneels beside the body, studying...interesting.

"Yes, dear Inspector," Sherlock states coldly, "There are clear signs; even you should not miss them. It's murder. All of them. I don't know how yet, but they are definitely not suicides."

Sherlock begins to get giddy again.

"We've got ourselves a Serial Killer. I love those! There's always something to look forward to."

Lestrade visibly pales at that last comment. "Why would you say that? Sherlock! Really now!"

Sherlock looks up the stairwell, catching the DI's gaze.

"She never got to the hotel!" Sherlock shouts up, speaking succinctly. "Her travel case! Come on where is it? Did she eat it? No! Someone else was here… the killer must have driven her here and forgotten about it!"

"Then where is it then. Yea?" Lestrade continues, "Where is this 'case'? Why wouldn't the murderer leave it here? The others were left with their things…"

"She's all a right mess, at least in her eyes, isn't she? She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes! She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..."

Out of know where, the information settles into its perfect placement. Like a blizzard in a globe, it creates a beautiful canvas only Sherlock can see.

"Sherlock, I'm telling you one more time. Slowly. There was no case…" Lestrade is already hanging over the side of the rail, trying seriously to convince the consulting detective that he is wrong for once.

"They take the poison themselves." John chimes in, affirming once again that there is a clear lack of struggle. "They chew then swallow the pill, by themselves. There is never any evidence as to another person being involved. Lestrade has told us this much."

"Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were." Sherlock fires back at the both of them alight with glee. "Find Rachel! The case! It's PINK!" Without another word Sherlock bounds into the depths of the night knowing the proverbial clock is indeed ticking.

After talking theory with the examiner Andersen, John looks around but can see no sign of Sherlock. Wasn't a surprise either, with the childish mirth that was flying off the man as he descended the stairs.

Wonderful.

"Ahm, yea right; where are we?" John asks nonchalantly.

"Brixton" the woman replies.

"Yea. Do you think I might be able to catch a cab? To my place. It's just, well, my leg."

"Hmm, try the main road." She continues, feeling obligated, "You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off."

The doctor flummoxed, takes in what she said. Honestly taken aback; this woman has no earthly idea the man Sherlock truly is. John has seen more in the last two months than any of these close-minded people had in the past few years.

"I don't believe that, not for one second."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John slowly makes his way back to the main thoroughfare. Finally, the doctor spots a cab and has them bring him back round to Baker Street. He voicelessly thanks the stars he will be able to wash London, fatigue and the memory of that poor woman off himself as soon as he gets in. He flicks on the telly as soon as he gets into the flat and starts the kettle, deciding on a late cuppa. Finally, opening the closet, he begins to change out of his clothes to head for the shower. The news catches his attention. They are at the crime scene he had just left less than an hour ago.

Damn. And Sherlock still isn't in...

John needs to collect his things from his sister's, and officially move some others out of storage. He'd have to write a reminder to do so or have someone take care of it after he is back on base. As he crouches down to get his shoe off properly, John is lost in thought he had forgotten his kettle. It began to boil, piercing the quiet lull of the flat with an ear shattering whistle he is not prepared for.

"Holy Mother!"

He immediately makes himself as small as possible thinking he is under fire again. It only takes him a second to realize he is here, in Sherlock's (and his) kitchen. Grabbing the offending kettle, he swings it to the other side of the room with a vehemence he doesn't realize has been brewing.

"Bloody hells damnation!" John swears again.

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock rushes over, dropping the pink case in his hand onto the floor as he moves immediately to see to John. "Were you burned?"

"No, bloody well, no! I'm off for a shower." John yells, skirting the kitchen table before he realises he is half nude and that his new scar is quite visible as he had taken his vest off. "I'm sorry, I owe us a new one tomorrow, yea? Give me a few minutes and I will be right out, glad you found the case."

Fifteen minutes later John is out of the shower, redressed mostly, and drying his hair when he hears the moan from in the sitting room. The next moment Sherlock is gasping like he has forgotten to breathe.

Oh God, is he ok? John did not need this tonight.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" Worry tints the doctor's question. Dropping his towel, he moves with practiced swiftness and immediately kneels at the couch."What are you doing? Are you alright?"

"Nicotine patches. It is impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork."

"Is that three patches?" John asks haltingly, going to remove at least one of them.

"It's a three patch problem." Sherlock grins serenely. "Now, good doctor, I need your mobile"

Looking up into Sherlock's face with a look of discontent apparent to anyone but the consulting detective, John takes the mobile out of his pocket and gently offers it to the man. He should ask why Sherlock needs the phone, but after the day he's had, he can't be arsed to care.

"Thank you. I'll only need this for a moment."

What happened at  
Lauriston Gdns?  
I must have blacked out.  
Twenty-two Northumberland Street.  
Please come.

Sherlock finishes off the text, then, looking around, he decides to haul out the pink travel case throwing it onto the shared ottoman.

"Small amount of day clothing. Coordinated of course," Sherlock unceremoniously throws it open revealing what the woman had packed for her liaison. "Cherry blossom' pink. Matching shoes, day bag; yes. Ah! Here we go! Scantily sheer lace bra with matching bottoms. 'Cherry blossom' and 'cameo' pink... of course, coordinated."

"Again daywear appropriate for a daytime romp. New lover has new to impress. He must have been adventurous. So she liked to be showy for him, interesting. Night time attire. Sizzling. Deep 'magenta' ruche short cocktail dress. Shoes and evening bag dyed to match. 'Tickle-me' pink and pearl accented underpinnings. She had a sense of humor and was quite the seductress. Oh, and this is not exactly a game to me, nor am I the murderer, but you should already know that..."

John looks up, surprise written all over his face, "I never said- Do people usually assume that you are the murderer?"

"Now and then, yes." Sherlock answers, turning his gaze back down to the contents of the travel case, schooling his expression. "It would be perfectly logical to assume, based on the text that I just sent."

"Well I am glad you got back here safely and in good time."

"Not like you, hmm? So are you going to tell me why you were in a right mood earlier before your shower?" Sherlock smiles and looks back up at John before crossing to the doctor, and stands a scant breath away. "Or do I get to try to deduce it?"

"Do you enjoy doing that? Confusing the lines?" John challenges back.

"I don't know, inconclusive." Sherlock smiles. "Maybe I need to formulate an experiment… I know of this quiet little restaurant with the best puttanesca and cabernet and it just happens to be close to the address I texted to our murderer."

Walking over and grabbing their coats, Sherlock returns to immediately invade John's space, yet again. "Oh John, you know you want to come. Danger. Excitement. And hopefully we will be able to catch the killer as well, if you can keep up."

Helping John into his coat, Sherlock gets even closer, enough to ruffle John's feathers.

Just as quickly, though, Sherlock heads out the door and down the stairs.

"Damnit!" John breathes to himself as he feels the heat rise to the tips of his ears. Catching up quickly, they both enter into the night.


End file.
